Bang!
With the violent impact, Kevin felt himself flung into the air.
Exhausted, his consciousness hazy, he did not even register pain before darkness swallowed him whole.
"Hmph—inhale, exhale… inhale… exhale…"
Kevin jerked upright, dragging in ragged breaths.
Am I dead?
The question echoed through his mind.
As awareness returned, his thoughts gradually cleared.
The question quietly dissolved.
He could feel it unmistakably. He was alive. Not dreaming. Awake.
Kevin looked down. A gray-black blanket covered him.
Though he had woken with a start, there was no pain, only a faint sense of fatigue.
No. He did not believe that vivid memory had been a dream.
He had clearly been walking down the road when a dump truck barreled into him and sent him flying.
It had been far too real.
Even if it had been a dream, he still should not be here.
This was a tent. Overhead hung something resembling an oil lamp, yet inside it was clearly a bulb.
If it had been a dream, he should be at home.
If he had truly been hit, he should be in a hospital.
Not here, inside a tent.
So… he had died, and this was the afterlife?
Or… had he transmigrated?
Absurd as it sounded, he had read enough stories for the idea to surface immediately.
Kevin was about to raise his hand to examine himself when a slightly husky voice spoke beside him.
"You're awake."
He snapped his head toward the sound.
Someone had been sitting there the entire time. He had not noticed, perhaps because the man had been completely silent, or because he himself was still disoriented.
The man appeared to be in his thirties. His complexion was slightly sallow, his appearance somewhat unkempt. Half-shaven stubble lined his jaw.
He wore a thin white tank top and sat cross-legged beside the cot.
In front of him rested an absurdly thick laptop.
An electric razor hummed in his hand. His brown eyes were fixed sharply on Kevin.
He seemed to have paused mid-shave. He flicked a small mirror aside.
Without breaking eye contact, he continued shaving his chin.
"Feeling okay?" he asked.
Only then did Kevin tear his gaze away and nod quickly.
His eyes drifted to the mirror nearby. A glint of reflected light caught his attention.
Though small, the mirror reflected most of his face.
His body stiffened.
His heart lurched.
Almost instinctively, he reached up and touched his cheek.
Because the face in the mirror was not his.
It was not any face he recognized.
Seeing a stranger's face where your own should be is the kind of shock reserved for horror films.
His expression went pale.
"What's wrong? Need more rest?"
The voice pulled him back.
Collecting himself with visible effort, Kevin muttered, "Sorry… I'm just groggy."
The man nodded. The stubble was gone. He set the razor aside.
"Figured. When I found you at the foot of the cliff, you were covered in blood."
He tilted his chin toward the corner.
Following the gesture, Kevin saw a heap of clothes stained dark with dried blood, grass, and dirt beneath the lamplight.
Kevin ran his hands over his body.
Once again, he confirmed it.
This was not his body.
There were no wounds. No pain.
Nothing that could have produced that much blood.
Not my blood? Or did transmigration heal whatever injuries this body had?
Or did this man treat me?
That fast?
Then again, if transmigration was possible, instant healing did not seem entirely unreasonable.
The problem was that the tent did not look especially different from his own era. Maybe a little retro, but not by much.
Worse, the man in front of him was clearly Asian.
Although… that alone proved nothing.
Strange surroundings. Possible transmigration. An unfamiliar body.
Every warning bell in Kevin's mind rang at once.
His thoughts raced, facts and speculation tangling together.
The emotional overload left him outwardly sluggish. His expression shifted subtly, his reactions slightly delayed.
Perhaps noticing this, the man did not press further. He simply watched him.
After a moment, he added, "Looked bad, but you don't have a single scratch. You just passed out."
"Ah… good to know."
Kevin had no idea what else to say.
He did not know where he was, what had happened, or even who he truly was.
And sitting beside him was the man who had supposedly saved his life.
Words failed him.
"By the way, what's your name?" the man asked.
Kevin froze.
His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Seeing his hesitation, the man continued, "Right. Here are your ID and wallet. You've been out for two days. You must be starving. Want something to eat?"
Kevin accepted the items and nodded, forcing a weak smile.
"I'm so drained I can barely think."
"Hah, figured. You've been unconscious. All you're getting is porridge. Don't say I'm stingy."
He rose with a hearty laugh, easygoing and confident.
Only now did Kevin truly notice him.
His build was balanced. Neither thin nor bulky. Muscles defined but not exaggerated.
There was a sense of steadiness about him.
He looked a little unkempt. If he had not shaved, the stubble would have been worse.
Cargo pants. Thick-soled boots.
He ducked out of the tent.
When the flap fell shut, Kevin finally exhaled.
He quickly opened the ID.
What script is this?
The first problem struck immediately.
The characters were unfamiliar. Circles and straight strokes arranged in strange patterns. Simplistic symbols rather than recognizable writing.
Completely alien.
Yet as he stared, something shifted.
Meaning seeped in.
Understanding formed naturally.
Fragments surfaced in his mind.
So… his name was Kevin as well.
Kevin Carpenberg.
As his heartbeat gradually steadied, realization dawned.
He had not handled this well.
"Still… given the circumstances, that reaction was normal. Right?"
From the fragments of memory, he sensed something else.
Something wrong.
"His behavior just now… it wasn't normal at all."
Outside, the man crouched beside a small stove, watching the pot.
Inside, a millet-like porridge simmered.
A cigarette glowed faintly between his fingers.
He stared into the flickering flames.
In his mind, he replayed the moment Kevin woke up.
Everything felt profoundly wrong.
So what exactly was he?
"I killed him with my own hands."